


Libation

by CGotAnAccount



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: King Shiro, Knight Keith, M/M, SHEITH - Freeform, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-17 23:18:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16983684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CGotAnAccount/pseuds/CGotAnAccount
Summary: Shiro is entranced by the dancing flame searing his hands and bracketing him onto his throne.Let his subjects find him as a pile of ash and ecstasy beneath his glittering birthright.





	Libation

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally just me vomiting my last panic feelings before the s8 drop. Also, a challenge for "the purplest prose you can purple".

Dark hair tumbles in riotous waves, swaying with every movement and Shiro can't help but tangle his fingers in to cradle their source. His fingertips dig at sweat-damp scalp, and the body above him purrs like a contented cat, arching into his touch with a roll.

The stained glass floods the room in crimson and golds from the light's dying rays, dancing and shimmering across the expanse of pale skin and silky hair in front of him. The sheen of sweat across delicate collarbones glimmers as it catches the light and a bead of sweat runs down the long exposed column of throat.

Shiro aches to lap it up, but the crown weighs heavy on him, poised to tip forward at the slightest provocation and clatter unceremoniously to the floor. The thought of startling the vision on top of him keeps his chin level and back straight, forearms straining with effort in their stead. His fingers cleave into the marble skin covering well muscled hips, sure to leave bruises blooming in their wake that will be carried proudly with laden glances and bitten lips during shared baths.

Theirs is not a clandestine affair, Shiro and his Knight – half the court whispers of the looks they level across a room, most believing it to be the desperate affections of one indebted to their better. They whisper of a feral wolf turned faithful hound that shadows their Lord, stalking his heels and snapping at ill intended hands – the Captain of the Guard with his own faithful pack that keeps the evils of the realm from the home of his master.

They have no idea, but are somehow closer than they know.

Shiro would melt his crown into a far smaller loop should his Wolf ever wish it, but he remains as feral as ever and will not be collared before court and country - and Shiro would never chain such a creature indoors. Instead his heart exists continually outside his body, clad in hunting leathers and adorned only in the jeweled amethyst of his eyes. He comes and goes as he pleases, silent and swift as his own knives but always sheathed come nightfall when Shiro feels his bedding dip and warm limbs entangle him. The smell of horse and leather and sweat is more calming than any exotic oils they have brought from afar to soothe his troubled mind.

No, he would not have his Knight become his consort to be laced tightly into velvet and made the target of political games – not when he can have him mind, body, and soul as a spark that chooses to burn with him.

Sharp canines glint in the dimming light, first indenting the plush skin below them, then releasing with a gasp as a talented tongue slides across points and panted breaths ghost across Shiro's skin. The body above his shudders and alabaster muscles ripple as hips writhe and roll with sinuous grace. Shiro is entranced by the dancing flame searing his hands and bracketing him onto his throne.

Let his subjects find him as a pile of ash and ecstasy beneath his glittering birthright.

Two palms slide up his chest as if reading Shiro's thoughts, one to cup his face and the other to mirror it's beloved mate as it tangles into a white forelock. Shiro's grip clenches and the liquid rhythm falters, bowing low before breath like dragon's fire fogs Shiro's mind as those sharp canines sink into the meat of his shoulder. The bite trails higher on his neck, sucking hard until skin matches the eyes glinting in the dim. The clutching hand jerks the head that holds the crown up before plucking the circlet off.

Dark eyes blown and bright, his Knight considers his prize before settling it onto his own wild mane with a wicked grin. The waning light now strikes the stained glass purple and crimson, scattering the color across damp skin and his lover becomes the canvas for galaxies - glittering droplets of sweat like orbiting suns as they streak down toward oblivion.

Shiro is struck, stuttering breath and hips alike. His mind dissolves as desire incarnate flaunts the only claim that deserves him and Shiro is compelled to pledge his fealty to this deity. He dips down, now free of his golden burden as he rings the skin of divinity's collar in the deep purple tones of his house, reveling in the hymns that fall from the lips above him. The vibrations under his tongue urge him to bury himself further into the molten center that envelopes him as the nectar of his god weeps down throbbing flesh and pools between them. He gathers the ambrosia in hand, smearing toward the source with a taut fist before pulling back and suckling from his own fingers. His god whimpers a note half-stuck before Shiro begins his veneration at a punishing pace.

Sunset tones ripple over them as fingers settle on knees and spine arches. His canvas shudders as the throbbing red of his need begs for worship.

Shiro obliges, ever devout.

Fingers dig into meat and spread as one lithe leg settles over the arm of the throne, laying out the bounty before hungry eyes. He has never known famine before, but Shiro is a man starving as his eyes take their fill – free hand finding the trickling well of his deity's desire. He pours his soul into his work, eager for the boon he knows is to come as he sinks into heaven incessantly. Heat ripples around him as rapture pours in incoherent song and Shiro ascends. Molten ambrosia adorns his chest and face, an offering from a pleased god as he spills his own searing libation inside.

Moonlight shines now, casting muted color over the heaving form draped across him, limp with exhaustion – a god cast down with pulse fluttering in a chest pressed slick to his own. Trembling fingers twitch weakly where they curl into shorn hair, a possessive press to match the ghost of lips over rough scars. The wine dark locks tickle his nose as Shiro buries deeply and breathes in the scent of his lover - marked so thoroughly as his own. He earns a huff of laughter.

The curling mane draws back to reveal those eyes, playful and earnest as hips shift and draw a hiss from them both. A body rises up and evidence of their love wells between them to stain the hard throne and trickle over the dais.

Let his court see come sunrise.

His god – a knight once more – lifts the crown from his own brow and offers it between them.

“My Lord.”

Shiro curls first his lips, and then his fingers around flesh and gilded metal, pressing both to his chest.

“My Love.”

 


End file.
